


Of writing plays, cider and hopeless playwrights

by Astray



Category: 16th & 17th Century CE RPF, Marlowe RPF, Real Person Fiction, SHAKESPEARE William - Works, Shakespeare RPF
Genre: Gen, Marlowe does writing counselling, Shakespeare can't write, Shakespeare drinks too much, The Jew of Malta, The Merchant of Venice, crackfic, use of modern words for no reason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astray/pseuds/Astray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shakespeare has to write a play to match Marlowe's 'Jew of Malta' and he is stuck. He asks the one person who can help him: Christopher Marlowe. But meeting in a tavern calls for drunken talks and much nonsense. And some plot devices in the midst of the nonsense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of writing plays, cider and hopeless playwrights

**Author's Note:**

> Shakespeare and Marlowe belong to themselves. I normally don't even think about RPS but I could not pass it on after my literature mentioned the fact that they knew each other and they many of their plays were answering each other on purpose - that's the case for 'Jew of Malta'/'Merchant of Venice' and 'Edward II/Richard II'.   
> As they say in 'Burke and Hare', it's all true, except for the bits that are not. 
> 
> And I am not even trying to make them speak in late 16th century fashion because it's not only hard, but also rather ridiculous when not done properly. Sue me.

A short-lived wail would have echoed in the tavern had it not been bustling with sounds already. In one of the corners, dark and lightened only with a nearby candle, two figures were hunched over empty pints. Well, one was hunched, the other just let his head hit the table with a thumping noise. 

“I won't make it Chris. Never. I mean, you have Barabas, your Jew of Malta cannot be equalled.”

“As much as I like to have you reminding me how great I am, I have to tell you that you are off your rocker. Way too drunk you are.” 

“Come on Chris! Your play is on the top charts and I can't face it.” He raised his head to cast a long-suffering glance at his rival/friend. “They want a play to match yours and really, whoever thought it was a good idea in the first place for us to compete with matching plays?*

“You are repeating yourself. That is why you called me, no? Now, lay of the cider and tell me what's bothering you.” It was late and Marlowe was only just slightly tired of the other playwright's antics.

“I can't write it, that's what there is! I am trying, for God's sake, I'm trying but that's no use, there's always you and your play around the corner to make me feel like a nitwit. What with the overflowing lexicon anyway?” The glare he was sending his way made Christopher Marlowe smile. He knew how much it annoying his fellow – because he was the one setting the pace of performance these days. But it was not the right place and time for mockery, and so he shook his head slightly. 

“William... Stop being childish. I'm sure we can work it out. What do you have?” Immediately, the other man seemed to sober up. It was unusual for Marlowe to propose his help and so, he jumped on the occasion. And ordered another row of cider.

“Alright, so, I have this character... Shylock. He's a Jew but not like your Barabas. More like... broken, see? But again, I want to have a comedy. Preventing comparisons and so on.”

“Avoiding _blatant_ comparisons, Will.”

“Just listen." William Shakespeare never liked to be interrupted when he was being serious. "So, comedy. Romantic comedy. How do I fit him here?”

“Does he have a daughter?”

“That's absolutely unrelated but yes, he does. Why?”

“Make her the love interest of someone else and have them elope or something.” The deadpan tone used by Marlowe conviced Shakespeare that it was not so stupid an idea.

“You sure? I don't know... because it'd be a bit trivial... I need something dramatic. I have a thought of making the Jew an enemy of a Venetian merchant. Like, they strike a bargain but the Venetian can't pay off for whatever reason – sinking argosies, something – and he asks for a pound of flesh.”

“The Jew asks for a pound of flesh? Will, I'm afraid to know what you are driving at...” And with that Marlowe eyed him suggestively, hiding a smirk behind his pint.

“What- Dear gods, I don't want to be in your head right now. How can you think about that? No one is going to get on your turf... been yours since your Edward II.”

“If I might add, your own Richard II swings dangerously that way.”

“You can't read the caterpillars properly, not my fault. So... pound of flesh carved out of the man... pound, Christopher Marlowe, not inches!” 

An undignified snort answered him when Marlowe just about sank in his drink. “I didn't say anything!” He coughed, trying to get the cider out of his nose and got back to an apparently serious demeanour. “So... the Jew wants to exact revenge on the Merchant. I take you know how to solve it.”

“Aye, but I don't know what to do with the noble... Bassanio. He's a friend to the merchant Antonio and has no money to woe a lady-”

“Complicated. As usual.”

“Anyway, he asks Antonio... maybe Bassanio has a friend who woes the Jew's daughter?”

“Makes sense. You don't need me, obviously.” But he understood why William would ask him, as he had expressed the wish earlier that day. Sometimes, things get easier when they talk and as playwrights and actors, they had more in common than with their fellows. 

“What of Antonio and Shylock? They bother me...”

“Kill them?" He asked it innocently but since William was galring daggers at him, Marlowe decided to provide some... more thoughtful insight. "You can leave your Jew as he is though... it would not hurt. I did that for Barabas – the guy was just blinded by his revenge and just went over the top. As for your Antonio... does he ask anything from Bassanio?”

“In return for the money? No. Why would it be important?”

“Well, we all know how much of a Jew you can be when it comes to money..." Another glare. "I'm not the one saying it. Still, would you lend money without any interest, to anyone?”

“Of course not! I have a business to run!”

Marlowe smiled at that and shook his head. No matter what people said, William Shakespeare was the worst man when money was involved. And then it dawned on him. “Your Antonio loves your Bassanio.”

“I beg your pardon?” It was William's times to snort up his cider. That was a habit, apparently. 

“Look, if Antonio loved Bassanio, he would want him to be happy, even knowing that it would expose him to his enemy. And Bassanio must have loved Antonio a great deal, right?”

“I can't write it down.” It might be the case though, he had not thought it through but surely there was something and when he tested some of the lines with the others, something was definitely there to be used, so why not? Marlowe's voice cut off his musing.

“I know that, but I'm right.”

“Bassanio is the one trying to save Antonio, but the man's a spoiled brat, he can't do a thing right. Except marry his heiress. Speaking of which I still need some sort of development – I'm tired of passive women...”

“Titus Andronicus comes to mind.”

Shakespeare groaned audibly at that. “Why don't you forget about it already?”

“Because it's too fun to annoy you. What if... what if she's the one saving Antonio?”

“Nah, there's a lawyer doing it and then, he asks the ring of Bassanio and Portia is upset and-”

“Will, your lawyer is your Portia.”

“You think that'd work?” The hopeful look on William's face told Marlowe that he had thought about it but apparently decided against it just some times ago. But Marlowe never quite cared for propriety and thus encouraged his colleague to keep on that track. 

“So, to sum it up: Bassanio loves Antonio but marries, Antonio loves him and would forfeit all he has out of love?”

“Come on, why would he do it otherwise?”

“And Portia is a manipulative woman who plays with her husband and so does her maid and there I go on the romantic comedy?”

“And tragedy, as far as your Jew is concerned. It's quite far from my own Jew, if I may say so, though I guess people would see it anyway.”

“Thank you, Chris!” And with that marlowe found himself with an armful of huggling Shakespeare. The kind that was rather strange, but he did not particularly minded, Gods knew why. “Really, thank you! You are brilliant! You shine as... tungsten!”

“Tungsten?” That was puzzling. To say the least. 

“Yup, like... tough but conveying light and something and hot and-”

_Oh my, he's reaaaaaaaaaaaally drunk now._ “I think you got enough to drink for today my friend...” They were not friends per se but he could used to it. Especially if Shakespeare took it to call him hot. He had no idea where the tungsten thing came from but since Shakespeare had a way for coining words, no doubt someone will use it some day. And he will remind him later how he went sprawling all over him, despite his reputation as a queer. Which was strange because he did not think he ever gave people a reason to... oh well. Weirdoes.


End file.
